


The Greatest Hero of the Rebellion

by Gozer



Series: The Thurberesque Carnival [1]
Category: James Thurber, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:26:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozer/pseuds/Gozer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Looking back on it now, from the vantage point of the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the New Republic, one can only marvel that it hadn’t happened long before it did.</i>
</p><p>Now with a new illustration/cartoon!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Hero of the Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> This work appeared in Syndizine 3: "Beneath the Revenge of Syndizine" as part of a 16-page multi-author section called "The Thurberesque Carnival" and was published in 1982. Aside from me, the other authors were Paula Block (aka "Poblocki") and Paula Smith, well-known names in early original series Star Trek fandom and my fellow Thurber-affectionados. This story won't be to everyone's tastes, but if you like the works of James Thurber, you're going to love it. The original story in the zine has been updated with current Swarsian slang.

**The Greatest Hero of the Rebellion**

Adapted from James Thurber’s _The Greatest Man in the World_  
by Teenygozer

Looking back on it now, from the vantage point of the tenth anniversary of the establishment of the New Republic, one can only marvel that it hadn’t happened long before it did. The Rebellion had been, ever since the destruction of the Death Star, blindly constructing the elaborate petard by which, sooner or later, it must be hoist. It was inevitable that someday there would come roaring out of the skies a galactic hero of insufficient intelligence, background, and character to endure successfully the mounting orgies of glory prepared for pilots who blew up big cruisers or large, planet-bound installations. Luke Skywalker, fortunately for decorum and interstellar amity, was a gentleman; even Han Solo, for all his sarcasm and disrespect for royalty, had that indefinable sense of self and aura of command that marks a true hero. Both wore their laurels gracefully and withstood the awful weather of publicity. No untoward incidents, at least on an interstellar scale, marred the perfection of their conduct on the perilous heights of fame. The exception to the rule was, however, bound to occur and it did, in the seventh month after the destruction of the Death Star, when Chock Smurchstalker, erstwhile mechanic’s helper in a small, scummy substation on Bloduine (a rebel-held moon), flew a second-hand, vastly retro-fitted Y-wing straight through the most fiendishly inventive defense system ever devised by human or alien to score a direct hit on the palace of the Emperor himself, killing numerous military advisers, enemy scientists, and several thousand newly-cloned stormtroopers.

Never before in the history of the Rebellion had such a flight as Smurchstalker’s ever been dreamed of. No one had ever taken seriously the weird floating auxiliary positron tanks, invention of the mad Kessel professor of astrophysics, Dr. Charz Leppis Griisham, upon which Smurchstalker placed full reliance. When the garage worker, a stocky, surly, greasy lad of twenty-two, appeared on Dock THX-1138 one bright, promising morning, slowly chewing a great lump of proto-cud, and announced “Nobody ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” his fellow mechanics scarcely noticed beyond an insulting comment or two. They dismissed the idea of his projected 250 parsec flight curtly, implying that it was a self-aggrandizing brag meant to cut in on the renown of the esteemed heroes, Solo and Skywalker. The rusty, battered, second-hand Y-wing wouldn’t go 25 parsecs, let alone 250, never mind those ridiculous Griisham auxiliary tanks. It was simply a cheap joke.

Smurchstalker, however, after calling on a female Patoot on one of the moons of Bloduine, who worked in the sterilizing department of a large plastic-yeast production factory, a female whom he later described as his “sweet Patootie,” climbed nonchalantly into his ridiculous rocketshop at dawn, spat a curve of proto-cud juice into the still air, and took off, carrying with him only a decaliter of home brew and six pounds of soya-lite plastic-yeast.

When the garage boy thundered out into the icy black calm, the rebel grapevine was forced to pass the word, in all seriousness, that a mad, unknown young humanoid—his species was variously misclassified—had actually set out upon a preposterous attempt to defeat the Empire in a rickety, jury-rigged contraption, trusting to the long-distance refueling device of a crazy schoolmaster. When, nine days later, without having stopped once, the tiny craft reached the outermost web of the defense shields surrounding the system containing Coruscant, the planet that served as the Imperial capitol and home of the palace of the Emperor—and slipped through unscathed, spluttering and choking, to be sure, but still magnificently and miraculously on-target, the grapevine gossips buzzed about nothing else, attracting the attention of the innermost circle of commanders and generals at the at the chief rebel base on Yorkaan. The morale officers, under the direct orders of Rebel high command, began to send out updated reports on the epoch-making flight to all rebel bases and planets, touched rather lightly upon the pilot himself. This was not because facts about the hero as a man were too meagre, but because they were too complete.

The Rebel morale officers, who had rushed out to Bloduine when Smurchstalker’s Y-wing was first reported to have gotten past the innermost moon of the Coruscant and destroyed the defense installation on it, to dig up the story of the great man’s life, had promptly discovered that the story of his life could not be printed. In fact, it made Han Solo’s shady past look positively squeaky-clean. Chock’s mother, a semi-human short-order cook in a diner that catered to Ugnauts and sentient beetles, met all inquiries as to her son with an angry, “Ah, the little sleemo; I hope they blast him to smithereenies.” His father was apparently imprisoned somewhere enduring a “personality re-alignment”—as to the charges he’d been convicted of, the morale officers were rather vague… something about “molesting droids.” Chock’s younger brother, a laserbrained sculag, was wanted on several planets of the Outer Rim for the petty theft of nerf druk, which he was trying to sell as Force-enhanced fertilizer, and which nobody was buying due to the smell. These alarming discoveries were still piling up at the very time that Chock Smurchstalker, the greatest hero of the Rebellion, blear-eyed, dead for sleep, half-starved, was piloting his crazy junk-heap high above the flak being discharged at him by Imperial gunships, heading back to Bloduine and a greater glory than any human of his time had ever known.

The necessity for publishing some account in the Rebel archives of the young man’s career and personality had led to a remarkable predicament. It was of course impossible to reveal the facts, for a tremendous popular feeling in favor of the young hero had sprung up while he was busily strafing the spires of the Imperial Palace. Propaganda being what it is during times of interstellar crisis, Chock was, therefore, described as a decent young man, with the humble nature of Luke Skywalker and the charisma of Han Solo. The only available picture of Smurchstalker, taken at the controls of a phony tie fighter in a cheap holostudio at a pleasure park, was touched up so that the little stoopa looked quite handsome. His twisted leer was smoothed into a pleasant smile. The truth was, in this way, kept from the youth’s ecstatic compatriots; they did not dream that the Smurchstalker family was despised and feared by its neighbors on the obscure moon he grew up on, nor that the hero himself, because of numerous unsavory exploits, had come to be regarded on Bloduine as a nuisance and a menace. There were even rumors that he had sold contraband to Imperial sympathizers. If he hadn’t become a hero of the Rebel Alliance, he probably would have been executed as a traitor to the cause.

Inwardly, the Rebel High Council prayed that an understanding Maker might, however awful such a thing seemed, bring disaster to the rusty, battered Y-wing and its illustrious pilot, whose unheard-of flight had aroused the rebel nation to hosannas of hysterical praise. The Council was convinced that the character of the renowned pilot was such that the limelight of adulation was bound to reveal him to all the galaxy as a congenital hooligan mentally, morally, and genetically unequipped to cope with his own prodigious fame. “I trust,” said General Dodonna, at one of many secret Council meetings called to consider the galactic dilemma, “I trust that his mother’s prayer will be answered,” by which he referred to the woman’s wish that her son might be “blasted to smithereenies.” It was, however, too late for that—Smurchstalker had leaped to hyperspace, then out again within easy coasting distance to Bloduine. Ten days after liftoff, the garage boy brought his decrepit Y-wing into Dock THX-1138 for a perfect three-point landing.

It had, of course, been out of the question to arrange a modest little reception for the greatest rebel pilot in the history of the Rebellion—the medals ceremony after the destruction of the Death Star had set quite a precedent. Fortunately, upon administration of a “nutrient shot” by a medical droid as he climbed out of his vehicle, the worn and spent hero promptly swooned (or so it appeared to the on-lookers) and had to be removed bodily from his Y-wing, and was spirited from the field without having opened his mouth once. Thus he did not jeopardize the dignity of this first reception, a reception illuminated by the presence of General Dodonna (who had ordered the “nutrient” injection), Commanders Luke Skywalker and Wedge Antilles, and a brilliant array of alien diplomats from worlds sympathetic to the Rebellion. Smurchstalker did not, in fact, come to in time to take part in the gigantic hullabaloo arranged for the next day. He was rushed off-planet to an infirmary on Yorkaan and confined in bed. It was nine days before he was able to get up, or to be more exact, before he was permitted to get up. Meanwhile the greatest minds in the Rebellion, in solemn assembly, had arranged a secret conference of officials, which Smurchstalker was to attend for the purpose of being instructed in the ethics and behavior of heroism.

On the day that the feisty mechanic was finally allowed to get up and dress and, for the first time in two weeks, take a great chew of proto-cud, he was permitted to receive a morale officer and protocol droid—this by way of testing him out. Smurchstalker did not wait for questions. “Lissen, tinhead,” he said—and the protocol droid winced—“youse guys can tell the cock-eyed galaxy dat I put it over on Skywalker, see? Yeah—an’ made an ass o’ them two frogs.” The “two frogs” was a reference to a pair of gallant Mon Calamari pilots who, in attempting to save a rebel outpost from a swarm of enemy tie fighters, had recently been killed in a fierce battle. The protocol droid was bold enough, at this point, to recite to Smurchstalker the accepted formula for interviews in cases of this kind; the morale officer explained that there should be no arrogant statements belittling the achievements of other heroes, particularly heroes of non-human races. “Ah, the hell with that,” said Smurchstalker. “I did it, see? I did it, an’ I’m talkin’ about it.” And he did talk about it.

None of this extraordinary interview was, of course, printed. On the contrary, the morale officer, already under the disciplined direction of a secret directorate created for the occasion and composed of ex-senators and several royal persons, gave out to a panting and restless galaxy that “Chocky,” as he had been arbitrarily nicknamed, would consent to say only that he was very happy and that anyone could have done what he did. “My achievement has been, I fear, slightly exaggerated,” the morale officer had him protest, with a self-effacing smile that would have rivaled Luke Skywalker’s on a particularly humble day. These reports, disseminated widely among the ranks, were kept from the hero, a restriction which did not serve to abate the rising malevolence of his temper. The situation was, indeed, extremely grave, for “Chocky” was increasingly anxious to meet his admiring public and, in fact, the Council had just about run out of excuses to prevent that meeting. He could not much longer be kept from a galaxy clamoring to lionize him. It was the most desperate crisis the Rebel Alliance had faced since the construction of the Death Star.

On a gray afternoon, two weeks after his Bloduine touchdown, Smurchstalker was spirited away to a conference room in which were gathered generals, commanders, protocol droids, behavioral psychologists, and even more morale officers. He gave them each a slimy handshake and a brief sneer. “Hah ya?” he said. When Smurchstalker was seated, General Dodonna arose and, with obvious pessimism, attempted to explain what he must say and how he must act when presented to rebel sympathizers, ending his talk with a high tribute to the hero’s courage and integrity. The general was followed by the ex-Senator of Dantooine, who, after a touching declaration of faith, introduced the Second Secretary to the Royal House of Alderaan, the gentleman selected to coach Smurchstalker in the amenities of public ceremonies. Sitting in a chair wearing extremely wrinkled fatigues, an unshaven Chock Smurchstalker listened with a leer on his lips.

“I get ya, I get ya,” he cut in, crudely. “Ya want me to act like a softy, huh? Ya want me to act like that candy-assed, baby-faced Skywalker, huh? Well, farkle that, see?” Everyone took in his, her, or its breath sharply; it was a sigh and a hiss. “Commander Skywalker,” began a general in the Alliance’s former greatest hero’s defense, “and Captain Solo—” Smurchstalker who was paring his nails with a knife, cut in again. “Solo!” he exclaimed. “Aw, fa the Maker’s sake, don’t compare me to dat Sithspit!” Before the “Sithspit”, also in attendance that afternoon, could unholster his blaster, a newcomer entered the room. Everyone stood up, even Solo—everone except Smurchstalker, who, still busy with his nails, did not even glance up. “Mr. Smurchstalker,” said General Dodonna sternly, “the Princess of the lost world of Alderaan!” It had been thought that the presence of the ex-senator might have a chastening effect upon the young hero.

A great, painful silence fell. Smurchstalker leered up at the princess. “How’s it shakin’, babe?” he asked, going back to his nails. The silence deepened. Someone coughed in a strained way. “Geez, it’s hot in here, ain’t it? How much longer is this gonna take?” The great and important beings in the room, faced by the most serious threat to the image of the Alliance since its inception, exchanged worried frowns. Nobody seemed to know how to proceed, except for Captain Solo, and with the Princess blocking the path of a clean blaster shot to Chock’s miniscule heart, he, too, was temporarily impotent. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here! When do I start cuttin’ in on de parties, huh? And what’s they goin’ to be in it?” He rubbed a thumb and forefinger together in a manner all who were acquainted with Han Solo were familiar with. “Financial remuneration!” exclaimed a protocol droid in shocked tones. “Dear me!” “Yeah, credits,” said Chock. “Lotsa credits. More’n even Solo ever dreamed of.” He tilted back in his chair, and leered at each general, separately, the leer of an animal that knows its power, the leer in the eye of a Dianogu loose in a child’s wading pool. “Aw, fa the Maker’s sake, let’s get ta some place where it’s cooler,” he said. “I been cooped up plenty for three weeks!”

Smurchstalker stood up and walked over to an open window, where he stood staring down into the common grounds of the base, nine floors below. The faint murmur of the rebel masses, hard at work defending life and liberty, truth and justice, floated up to him. He made out his name. “Hot banthaburgers!” he cried, grinning, ecstatic. He leaned out over the sill. “Here I am, troops!” he shouted down. “Spread the word!” In the tense little knot of beings standing behind him, a quick, mad impulse flared up. An unspoken word of appeal, of command, seemed to ring through the room. Yet it was deadly silent. Chewbacca, co-pilot to Captain Solo, happened to be standing nearest Smurchstalker; he looked inquiringly at the Princess of Alderaan. The Princess, pale, grim, nodded shortly. Chewbacca, a tall, powerfully built wookie, stepped forward, seized the greatest hero of the Rebellion by his left shoulder and the seat of his pants, and pushed him out the window.

“Holy Sith, he’s fallen out the window!” cried a quick-witted archivist.

“A blow to the Alliance!” cried the princess, pressing the back of one dainty hand to her forehead. Solo and Skywalker sprang to her side and she was hurriedly escorted out the door. General Dodonna took charge, being used to high-pressure situations. Crisply he ordered certain beings to leave, others to stay; quickly he outlined a story which everyone was to agree on, sent two commanders to the common grounds to handle that end of the tragedy, erased the short-term memories of the protocol droids, and commanded an ex-senator to sob and two lieutenants to go to pieces nervously. In a word, he skillfully set the stage for the gigantic task that was to follow, the task of breaking to a grief-stricken galaxy the sad story of the untimely, accidental death of its most illustrious and spectacular figure.

The funeral was the most elaborate, the finest, the solemnest, and the saddest ever held by the Rebel Alliance. The monument on an airless, otherwise barren asteroid, with its clean white shaft of marble and the simple device of a tiny X-wing carved on its base, is a place for freedom-fighters, in deep reverence, to visit for inspiration.

The members of the Alliance paid lofty tributes to old Chock Smurchstalker, the Rebellion’s greatest non-living hero (Skywalker regained his title of the greatest _living_ hero.) At a given hour there were two minutes of silence throughout the star systems. Even the inhabitants of the small, scummy sub-station on Bloduine observed this touching ceremony; morale officers of the Rebel Alliance saw to that. One of them was especially assigned to stand grimly in the doorway of a little diner that catered to Ugnauts and sentient beetles. There, under his stern scrutiny, Emna Smurchstalker bowed her head above two taun-taun steaks sizzling on her grill—bowed her head and turned away, so that the morale officers could not see the twisted, strangely familiar, leer on her lips.

 

 


End file.
